Frustration
by TooManyChoices
Summary: Part 1. John POV. John is frustrated at the unresponsiveness of his flatmate. Pre-slash/relationship building. I don't claim any rights to anything remotely BBC.
1. Chapter 1

John Watson is frustrated.

He's had a shit of a day, a shit of a week, the last case they'd solved was a shit, Anderson had been a shit _nothing new there_, the weather was shit and when they'd finally cornered the odd woman with the deranged plan to poison the water supply, it had all...gone to shit.

And now, back at Baker Street, which was supposed to be his home and haven, Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective was...being a total...shit.

_How the hell can he be so damned cheerful? _John is sitting on a kitchen chair he'd dragged into the bathroom, Sherlock perched on the edge of the bath, hand outstretched and upturned as John picks pieces of glass and slivers of wood embedded in the long fingers and palm, following with an application of antiseptic. It twists something inside John to see those beautiful hands reduced to a patchwork of cuts and scratches and he wonders how scar tissue may impact Sherlock's ability to play the violin.

"Sherlock, sit still" John holds the hand more firmly as Sherlock gestures gleefully with the other, caught up in reliving the detail of the capture.

"Did you see her John, when she knew we had her? Did you see the moment of recognition, when she knew we'd beaten her?"

"Yes Sherlock, I saw it. Now sit...still!" John tugs at a shard, perhaps slightly more roughly than needed, to grab Sherlock's elusive attention, "Some of these are deep and I don't want to hurt you." _Although maybe some pain might teach you not to take such stupid risks._

Sherlock's hand stills and his eyes swing to focus on John, bent in concentration over his hand, "Yes, right. You're right of course." The hands cease their expressive dance; the feet however, continue their percussion tapping on the tiles.

_God, he's so buzzed with adrenaline at the moment... It's going to be a very long night...again._ All John wants to do is tend to his own injuries, grab a hot shower and crawl into bed, but he'd learned the hard way that if he didn't get Sherlock sorted the mad git would simply divert himself with whatever captured his fancy and whatever injuries would be forgotten in the path of discovery. He remembered once spending several hours cleaning the kitchen after Sherlock had managed to smear virtually every surface with bloody handprints after John had stupidly chosen to change out of sodden clothes before tending to his wounded flatmate.

John changes to tend to the other hand, Sherlock gazes at the one John's released, mentally cataloguing the number and position of new markings as if memorising a street map. There's a pause in the frenetic activity as Sherlock files away the scrap of information somewhere in his cavernous brain.

It's not that John doesn't enjoy what he does, running around after Sherlock, solving crimes and being brought to a thundering, open mouthed halt at the brilliance of Sherlock's deductions but it isn't….enough. Endless months running, living, working beside this incredible man have begun to mess with his head. The domesticity of Baker Street and a string of disastrous short term relationships continue to cycle back to an inescapable conclusion _I fancy my flatmate._ Sherlock hasn't helped the situation by being a complex conundrum of questionable glances, casual nudity in the flat and blatant innuendo that is never followed up with action.

His life has begun to feel like the wrong type of carnival ride, with the right music and gaudy lights, but missing some undefinable spark that would end the ride in a breathless, sweat drenched sense of completion. _And I'm afraid to change rides in case I'm thrown out of the park._

John switches hands again, putting down the tweezers and picking up the antiseptic. The methodical routine of John's actions have settled Sherlock somewhat and the detective is now quietly watching as John turns and dabs and flexes fingers one at a time to ensure mobility hasn't been compromised. John can feel Sherlock's gaze, unwavering and analytical and wonders _not for the first time _how the two of them ended up with their paths intersecting in this small flat on Baker Street.

Ministrations complete, John releases Sherlock's hand, aware _again_ of the odd sadness that always follows the loss of contact. He sighs deeply and looks up to catch the intent gaze of the man opposite.

"There you go Sherlock, good as new."

"Thank you John. As always, your skill is exemplary."

John's tired and his first thought is to brush the compliment off, but he knows Sherlock is trying. He's not oblivious enough to think Sherlock hasn't detected John's rising level of frustration over the past weeks. He's been increasingly cranky, and Sherlock has been getting the worst of it. The taller man may be a genius but he isn't psychic and he's doing his best given limited information.

"Thanks….Thanks Sherlock. I'm going to take a shower. Why don't you play for a while, your violin calms you down." _Rather than wreck the kitchen._

"John…"

The bathroom is quiet, the simplicity of tiles and porcelain reducing the complexity of Baker Street to shades of white and beige.

"John…" Sherlock tries again. This time, John raises his head to look into troubled eyes.

"What's wrong John?" The deep baritone is gentle and questioning.

"Nothing." John doesn't want to get into this tonight _or perhaps ever._

"It's not 'nothing'. It's been 'not nothing' for several weeks now and I don't understand why you won't explain it. I find it quite frustrating."

_Quite frustrating? How does he do that? Speak whatever is on his mind without reservation? Isn't he afraid of repercussions? Perhaps I could learn something from him on this topic._

"You won't want to hear it." John begins.

"I've asked, so you may assume that I do."

John pauses, looks to the ceiling as if searching for divine inspiration, closes his eyes and sighs. Sometimes, the only way to win a battle is to sacrifice some ground.

"Sherlock, are you happy?"

Sherlock looks somewhat taken aback, then thoughtful, considering the question fully, "Yes. We've removed another threat from London's streets, you've treated my hands and the experiments in the fridge should produce some meaningful data by the morning. Yes John, I can say that I am currently happy."

"I'm not Sherlock. I'm…." John realises that for the first time, the simple statement is the truth, "… not happy"

The expression on Sherlock's face is one that John's never seen before _ever! _There is a mix of shock, despair, panic and desperation, all crowded and fighting for balance and if John ever thought Sherlock emotionless or uncaring, the suspicion had been wiped away in a single blink. If John wasn't staring fixedly, he may have missed it as the look appeared and vanished in a heartbeat but it had been there _So help me…it WAS there. _

Sherlock clears his throat roughly and with a carefully neutral tone enquires, "Why?"

Everything has changed. Everything. With that one look, John's carefully considered speech about sharing a flat and yet needing to maintain some semblance of individuality falls away. His planned script about needing to find a relationship, a 'partner' outside Baker Street evaporates. His hesitant intention to bare his soul and explain that, well…he had NEEDS and running around with Sherlock in the dark wasn't getting those needs met disappears like smoke.

Instead, John takes a deep breath and attempts to write a new future, a future that includes a tall, wild haired, insane but brilliant detective. He knows it's a risk, he knows that in all likelihood this will doom what they have and yet, _and yet…I damned well SAW it. I saw that look._

John searches for words, the right words. The words that will inform but not alarm. Words that will offer opportunities yet not close off options. Words that will articulately explain that while this life that they're living is the best damn thing he's ever had he knows, he absolutely fucking KNOWS that it could be so much better.

However, what comes out of his mouth is, "Quite often, I dream of shagging you."…_Bollocks_


	2. Chapter 2

…..What comes out of John's mouth is, "Quite often, I dream of shagging you."…_Bollocks_

Sherlock has the grace to look briefly shocked, but transitions quickly into something closer to appraisingly interested.

John wants to crawl into the closest hole. He believes he's seen one being dug down the road in Baker Street that will do nicely for the moment, before possibly going online to find something further away…..Portugal perhaps. He scrabbles inside his own head for something, anything at all to give another meaning to the words, an alternate to the brutal simplicity of his statement. _No…nope…nothing…perhaps…no…maybe….not that either…BOLLOCKS!_

He feels not unlike a rat caught in a trap, a rather ostentatious trap. He pictures large neon signs placed around the trap saying 'Come and see…..this'll be worth a laugh'. The silence in the room has taken on the consistency of treacle. No, on second thoughts more like candy floss. The kind that looked utterly delicious to begin with but ends up beginning to dissolve on your fingers, stuck to your face and in your hair, and rubbed into your jeans. The elusive sweetness gone and all that remains is…sticky and with a thin layer of grime.

And like an insect drawn to the unexpected sugar, Sherlock's voice adds to the mess by saying, "Really…and by quite often, you mean more often than you'd like to dream of shagging me?"

_Oh God._

"Look Sherlock, forget I said it. Just delete it, you can do that…delete it….Can't you?" John trails off hopelessly, adrift and mentally covered in candy floss.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, considering then slowly shakes his head, "No. I don't think we're going to do that. This is far too interesting to simply delete John."

_Oh…God._ Sometimes _like just about now _John comes very close to hating Sherlock. The same clarity of vision, ruthless analysis and blinding insight that leaves him quivering with awe can just as easily cut, leaving a battered and carved up corpse to bleed out on the road. It wasn't that Sherlock was ever intentionally hurtful, it was simply that he took the shortest and most direct path to the information he needed to deduce outcomes and often the carnage left in the wake of the long legs and Belstaff coat was an unfortunate byproduct of the headlong rush toward truth.

"Please?"

"Would it make you happy John?"

"Yes! Very happy."

The eyes narrowed again, "And yet….you say you're not happy. Not happy because….you dream of shagging me…..quite often."

"OK, will you stop saying that…please."

"I'm simply ensuring that I've correctly understood the source of your unhappiness. Is it the frequency? If so, is the desired number higher or lower than you're currently experiencing? Is it the subject matter? Would you prefer to be dreaming of shagging someone else? Is it…."

"For God's sake Sherlock! PLEASE shut it." John scrubbed his hands across his face, at this point not really sure whether it was an unconscious attempt to hide his face, or wipe the look of horror from it.

"…that you're shagging me…and you'd rather the dream be of me shagging you." Having finished the line of thought, Sherlock acceded to John's request and stops talking.

_Kill me now_

"Look, Sherlock. I didn't mean it." _I did, he knows I did_

"Not true"

_Try again_ "OK….I didn't mean to say it!"

"True, and yet you did"

_I did, didn't I?_

"But...oh hell." John trails off again, hopelessly mired in what he said, what he wanted to say, what he wants to ask, what Sherlock's asking, _what he's NOT asking_ and what he wishes he didn't even want to ask. "I'm getting a cup of tea, want one?"

"Yes please, and John..."

"Yes...Sherlock...what?" John is already escaping through the bathroom door.

"You realise you're simply applying avoidance techniques?"

"Yes Sherlock, I'm well aware"

Ten minutes later, John feels somewhat better, cradling a hot cup of tea between his hands, staring fascinated at the soft swirl of steam rising from the cup. He feels like it's taking the errant words with it, rising and dissipating in the cooler kitchen air. _If Sherlock will just leave it alone..._

"John...?"

_Too much to ask I suppose. Invading Afghanistan was more fun than this._ "Yes Sherlock"

"Are we going to talk about this?"

"Is there any chance whatsoever that I can avoid it?"

"No."

"Then I suppose we're going to talk about it."

"Now?"

"No Sherlock...in fifty years when we're both old, and senile and with any luck I won't remember having the conversation by breakfast time the following day. YES, now! We'll talk about it now."

Sherlock looks perturbed by John's outburst, as if he's given John an utterly unique gift only to have it put aside for a newspaper with the crossword already done. John can't entirely blame him, appropriate social behavior has never been Sherlock's greatest skill _although he can fake it when required _and John knows Sherlock values the honesty and openness that forms a cornerstone of their relationship.

"So..." Sherlock begins

"So..." _This is going well, can I leave now?_

"Would it help if I said that dreams are an unconscious manifestation of your brain processing coping skills, many of which will never be required during waking hours?"

"Do you think that why I'm dreaming of..." _No..I'm not going to say it again_

_"_Shagging me?" Sherlock adds.

John winces _There you go...thanks for that Sherlock, I'd forgotten that bit_

"No." Sherlock continue, "I doubt this is anything so complex."

"So what do you think it means?" _Don't say it...don't say it_

"I think it probably means you quite like the idea of shagging me"

"Ah..."

"So the real question is..." Sherlock leans forward on the kitchen table, so close to John that the steam from his cup has to alter its course around the face looming over him, "What's stopping you?"

John should have expected it, and yet the spray of tea that spurts from his mouth comes as a surprise to them both, creating a fine mist that coats the top of the table as well as Sherlock's hands resting on the tabletop.

Sherlock quietly wipes his hands on a dish towel as John tries to catch his breath, coughing to clear the liquid from his lungs.

Sherlock tries a different approach, delivered with a grin, "Let's try a different approach shall we. Something less...explosive"

John wordlessly nods

"What...if anything...do you want to do that will make you...happier?"

_Now that's a good question_. _I can work with that._ John smiles and it feels like the first time since they got back to Baker Street. Sherlock fairly glows seeing John's favourable response, confident that he's managed to take a small yet positive step toward clarity.

"Well..." John began, "I want..." _What DO I want? Perhaps this wasn't as easy a question as I thought, _"Maybe I should start with what I don't want."

"Whichever way will end with you happy again. Your happiness actually matters significantly more to me than I'd previously considered."

"Ok then, what I DON'T want is to make you unhappy. I don't want to stuff up what we have, which is the best damned thing I've ever had. I don't want to make you feel like you have to do anything you don't want. I don't want…."

"That's enough of a list John. Can we move this along, I'm growing bored."

"Yes, just wait Sherlock, this isn't easy."

Sherlock's frustration level is growing, John knows the symptoms well, the furrowed forehead, the thinning of that cupid's bow mouth, the skittish movements as he tries and fails to look patient. With a huff, Sherlock moves around behind John's chair, leans in over his shoulder and whispers in a voice that seemed to ooze directly from his pores, "Tell me what it is you WANT John."

The involuntary shudder and whimper that ripples through him should be mortifying, but John is beyond embarrassment now, and has moved to instinctive WANT _which is probably what Sherlock's goal was _in response to that voice, with the low growl with a hint of authoritative demand never fails to reduce John to a more primal state where acceptable social behaviour is held with the tips of trembling fingers. _I want…_

Sherlock moves his lips to the other side of John's head _He knows what this does to me _and purrs again, "What….do you…NEED?"

"I need…."

"It's OK John," the silky voice caresses his ear, "You can ask…I WANT you to ask." He starts to plant light kisses along John's neck below his ear.

_God help us both, _"I want…." John's trembling now, a heady rush of adrenaline, denied lust, fear and hope. "I want…..you"

John feels Sherlock smile against his neck before the lips resume their gentle tasting of the skin there. "You already have me, I'm right here." The response is muffled; Sherlock's hair tickles John's cheek.

"I want…more" John whispers breathlessly, light headed and rapidly losing the ability to put cohesive sentences together.

"How much more?" Sherlock has now moved his hand up to play with the short hairs at John's nape and the feeling is exquisite, heady and John's sure nobody has ever touched that particular spot before.

"All of it….I NEED all of it, all of you, all of us." John thinks that's about the last sentence he's going to be able to put together for quite some time and he desperately hopes it will be enough. It comes out in a rush and he knows it sounds pathetic and needy and raw but it's honest and it's the truth.

There's a pause at his shoulder as Sherlock considers the response, and compares it to what HE wants _whatever that is and if it's something different then why the hell is he kissing my neck?_

After a pause that John thinks falls somewhere between five seconds and 'bloody forever' there's an intake of breath and the words "Then take it John, reach out and take it" seem to sidestep his ears completely and slip straight into his soul.

John's out of the chair in a heartbeat, turning as he rises and crowding Sherlock up against the kitchen bench behind them. The kiss is messy, and there's the click of teeth in John's haste to get closer, and somehow their noses seem to be getting in the way more than John's used to, and John's distantly aware that he's usually much better at this bit but can't seem to find time to care about that right now. There was also the pop of a button as he applies too much pressure to Sherlock's jacket while trying to get his hand inside and he wonders if Sherlock will be cross about that, but now his hand is fisting in the smooth cotton of his shirt and he wonders how many more buttons can be sacrificed in the need to get to more skin. John's other hand comes up to cup behind Sherlock's neck, pulling him down slightly because he's _so damned tall and I'm not used to that but it's brilliant! _And Sherlock is smiling, through the kisses and the popping buttons and the pushy John Watson who has latched onto him _and that's brilliant too! _And there's Sherlock's hands on him too, one around his waist, the other on his arse, holding him close and showing him that this was definitely the right answer _and that's BEYOND brilliant!_

John stops for a moment dragging in ragged breaths and leans his forehead on Sherlock's chest, noticing how nicely he seems to fit into the curve between Sherlock's chin and shoulder. He's sure there used to be more air in this room and he's still a little dizzy and he's pretty sure that if Sherlock took his hands away that he'd collapse on the floor in an undignified heap. But Sherlock's hands don't seem to be going anywhere, although the clutching and kneading going on in the buttock area certainly indicates there are places they'd like to be going.

Sherlock plants a gentle kiss somewhere above John's temple, and leaves his face there to nuzzle in John's hair for a moment, gently huffing while they both catch their breath. After the soul searching earlier, the quiet in the room seems companionable and comfortable and while John has things he feels ought to be said, right now it seems like everything that needs to be known has been covered.

Sherlock however has a loose end to tie up, "Happier?"

John grins against Sherlock's shirt, "Much"

"So am I."


End file.
